“Hey everyone, we got the news on. Come quick!” Annie Garrett yells. She lost her husband to the horde. Now he’s one of the bastards out there trying to find a way in. She pointed him out through one of the windows. He was only wearing a bathrobe. I didn’t ask.
The condo has an eighty-inch plasma TV mounted on a wall with built-in speakers in the ceiling. I really want to play video games on it. We huddle around.
This is the first I take notice how many of us there are. Counting myself, we have fourteen and a half (the baby). Only a few I know by name despite trying to keep my distance.
As everyone settles in, some douche comes on camera and begins his report . . .
Ground evacuations of San Diego are currently at a standstill due to congested roadways and the overwhelming number of hostile infected marching toward the San Diego River.
Helicopters fly overhead, rattling windows so loud it drowns out the television.
The report changes frames from the douche to U.S. Army General Xavier Mendez standing in front of a podium for a press conference. I kind of like this guy. Looks like he could take down about a thousand zombies with his stare.
We are continuing to give our best efforts in this current pandemic plaguing our border cities, but must halt all evacuations at this time. Infected areas as of 0700 are now under Military Quarantine. The safety of civilians within these areas is important to us. However, we must ensure there is no further spread of this disease to the surrounding populous throughout Texas, Arizona, New Mexico and California.
All branches of U.S. Military are coordinating with the CDC and local law enforcement to contain and police these areas.
Unfortunately, due to the nature of the disease, those afflicted, as you know, become extremely hostile. Deadly force has and will continue to be used. I have personally given authorization to use such force to aid in the security of our soldiers and civilians alike. I alone bear this responsibility.
My message to those of you watching or listening from within these areas, please do not attempt to leave your homes. If you are out in the streets, you must immediately seek shelter until help can arrive. Our prayers go to all of those trapped within the infected areas . . . I now open the floor to any questions.
The camera never wavers from General Mendez. Hands raise and voices shout as reporters try to gain his attention. Finally, General Mendez points to a reporter in a blue suit.
General! Has the origins of the virus been established? Is there any truth to the rumors the virus might be linked to a terrorist plot against the U.S.?
General Mendez doesn’t even appear to blink . . .
Our intel at this time points to the virus originating somewhere within Mexico through a narcotic that bears the name Infamy. A more precise origin location has not yet been established, nor has any identity of the person or persons responsible. Neither has there been any evidence to suggest the infection is terror-related.
Has it been established as to exactly how the virus is transmitted?
Studies are still being conducted by the CDC. I can say the disease is similar to Rabies, in which it spreads through direct contact of bodily fluids from the host to the bloodstream. We do not believe this virus is airborne.
However, there is still the question as to how the Infamy narcotic became infected with the virus. I have time for one last question.
How do you plan on handling the situation if no cure can be found?
The General looks over to his right as if he is asking a question to someone out of view. He then faces the row of microphones.
No comment. Thank you.
The TV is left on but most of us just don’t give a shit about the rest of the news—especially the way the news anchors smile. They’re always smiling. Fuck faces. We walk away.
I’m hungry, so I head to the kitchen. I hit a jackpot with the fridge. It’s loaded with condiments, booze and bottled water. The freezer is stocked with Hot Pockets. Not the healthiest of dinners, but it does fill a void when you’re hungry. As I’m waiting for my food to nuke (thank God there’s still electricity. How long will it last?) Sandy walks up to me with the baby asleep in her arms.
“I’m going to lay her down in the condo next door,” she says. “It has a nursery. I’ll be taking the bedroom next to it. Would you like to say goodnight?”
“No, that’s fine. Thanks for the help.”
Sandy walks away shaking her head.
Soon as the microwave timer goes off I hear a familiar voice.
“You mind making one of those for me?”
It’s the hot chick who hates my guts.
“What?” I ask. “Aren’t you going to say, ‘Make me a Hot Pocket, asshole.’?
She looks apologetic. “I’m sorry for yelling at you in the lobby. My name’s Jessica. I was angry. We’re all angry right now. And you don’t seem to have a filter on your mouth.”
Since when do hot chicks apologize for anything? “You noticed?” I say. I decide to ask a question, pretending to care. “How is Jane holding up?” I take out the Hot Pocket, take a bite and burn my tongue.
“She’s my cousin,” Jessica says.
Oh shit. My tongue really hurts. I drink some water.
“She’s grieving,” Jessica continues. “Our mothers are sisters and they hate each other. I came down from San Francisco for Jane’s wedding. Was supposed to be this weekend.”
Jessica really thinks I care about her life story. If she wasn’t as hot as she is, I’d be eating my Hot Pocket on the balcony watching the light show.
“Sorry, I’m a little tipsy,” Jessica says. “Jane and I found some vodka and had a few drinks.”
“Shouldn’t you be helping her?”
“She’s passed out. Where are you staying? Sleeping in this building? Or are you leaving somewhere?”
Wait a minute. Did she just hit on me? I try not to laugh. Besides, I have a lot of Hot Pocket in my mouth right now. “I haven’t had a chance to look for a place to crash,” I say with my mouth full. Pepperoni is really good during an apocalypse. Too bad Domino’s doesn’t deliver. That shit would be heaven.
“We should go find one,” Jessica says. “I mean, find you one.”
What is it about chicks and assholes anyway? Ah well, here we go . . .
No one really takes notice of us. Maybe they just don’t care. We head down the hall kissing and stumbling over each other’s feet. I’m not too sure how my breath is (haven’t had a chance to brush in almost two days), but by the taste of vodka in hers, she probably doesn’t notice.
We wander through an open door into a dark living room, not paying too much attention to where we are. A couch makes for a soft landing when I collide with the armrest and fall onto it with Jessica in my arms and our faces still connected. That is, until we hear the noise of something hard rolling on top of a table followed by the crash of shattered glass, topped off with a baby crying.
Lights in the hall kick on as Sandy walks in the room with the baby in her arms.
“What’s going on in here? Are we being attacked?” she asks.
Jessica hops to her feet, attempts to straighten out her clothes.
“Fuck,” I say.
Sandy smiles big.
Goddam it.
“If this isn’t something life threatening, then can you put the baby back to sleep?” Sandy asks.
Triple fuck.
Sandy hands over the baby, which is now in full-rage mode. Mrs. Old Face heads back to her room and shut’s the door.
Jessica takes the baby from me and sits on the couch while rocking her. “Oh you poor baby. Were we being too loud?” She then turns to me. “Don’t just stand there. Go get Ella a bottle.”
“Sure,” I say. Wait, what did you call her?”
“Ella. That’s her name right? It’s on the shirt she’s wearing.”
“Fine by me. Sandy must have put it on her. She didn’t have a name earlier. I was thinking about calling her, It.”
The baby
stops crying as I go find a bottle to warm up. Here I’ve been pining over Kathy and finally I’m seconds from getting laid. Why does this happen to me? Maybe it’s the fuckpocalypse on top of all this zombie shit. Why is it women can shut their stuff off at the drop of a hat? Damn babies can be such cock blocks. Am I being selfish? Well fuck it. It’s my apocalypse too.
Ella falls asleep, but the damage has already been done. Jessica has zero mood as she lays the baby down in the room. She leaves me with a kiss before walking back to wherever she left Jane.
Fuck you, cheap-ass vodka.
I go back to the room with the eighty-inch plasma and find Fight Club playing on a movie channel. When I’m about to fall asleep there’s another shit of a problem. Caesar is standing with his black bag. Looks like it weights a ton as he sets it next to the couch.
He holds out a cigar. “Care to join me on the balcony?” he says, sniffing the cigar. “These are Cubans of course.”
“Sure, why not,” I say. “It’s the end of the world. Who needs sleep?”
It’s chilly outside but in a good way. Five floors down, undead press against each other, still trying to enter the building.
Caesar hands over one of the Cubans after cutting off the end. He produces a lighter and cups the flame so I can light mine.
“Be sure to rotate as you puff. That’s the secret for giving it an even burn.”
He takes a long drag then blows a ring of smoke. “Here’s to our business agreement. It’s a good night for smoking don’t you think?”
“So what is it you do exactly?”
Caesar takes another drag from his cigar before answering. “In Mexico I own some manufacturing and distribution companies. Lots of exporting.”
Yeah for drugs you lying sack. “Why do you need to make it to El Cortez?”
His relaxed manner fades a little. “My reason is not of your concern. Just think of how we will get there. Preferably in a speedy manner. While I might have been able to eventually find my way, I find it is far better to travel in a pair. We must watch out for each other.”
“Money over knowledge,” I admit. “Probably best that way.”
“With a mindset like that, you and I can go far. Now what about that baby of yours?”
“More like a stray that needed to be rescued. Sandy seems fond enough. Maybe she’ll take her. These people will probably stay here until help arrives. The baby would be better off.”
“Excellent. Now for one more gift.” Caesar reaches to his waistband as he takes a quick puff of his cigar. He then presents a handgun. “I prefer you were armed during our journey. Have you ever fired a weapon?”
“Many times.” In video games, you sleazeball. Is there a difference? I can do this.
“Are you sure? Maybe you should fire a few into the crowd below just to get a feel.”
He cocks back the chrome hammer and hands over the weapon. Finally I get a chance to vent all that sexual frustration that Jessica just built in me.
Bam! Bam! Each round brings both blood and scarification. No really, it does. Although, I’m not really sure I hit anything.
After exhausting the clip, Caesar replaces it with a new one.
“Can’t believe you’re trusting me with your gun,” I say.
“You profit nothing by my death if that’s what you mean. I know you will value my protection as much as your own.”
Just then a flame smashes onto the crowd of undead, setting fire to several zombies. Some douchebag in a Hawaiian shirt is lighting cocktail bombs on an adjacent balcony. He throws like a fucking girl.
“Heard you guys having all the fun and wanted to join in,” the douchebag laughs. “Don’t have a gun but I do have several cases of liquor.”
A drunk arsonist with the throwing arm of a disenfranchised NFL quarterback? This can’t end well.
“How about sleeping it off before you set the building on fire,” I say.
“Just having a little fun. Don’t be such an asshole.” Douchebag throws down a few more Molotov cocktails. One catches an entire group of zombies on fire. I don’t think the undead even notice their hair is ablaze, let alone melting flesh and boiling brains.
“I have no time for this nonsense,” Caesar says. He pulls out another gun and shoots the bottle out of the man’s hand.
It’s a fucking awesome shot. Glass shatters and alcohol comes into contact with the lighter the dude just lit. A fiery cloud singes his face. He runs screaming into his condo.
“Damn, Caesar, was that necessary?” I say.
Some people from our group come out to see what’s going on.
Caesar addresses the small crowd. “Just doing some target practice. We’re done. Everyone can go back to sleep.”
“Thought maybe you were shooting one of us again,” says Gonzo. He’s the oldest dude in our group and always uses pissed-off sarcasm.
Caesar puts his hand on the already holstered gun. “The infected never rest. So maybe you should go back to your bed before I confuse you with one.”
Gonzo’s eyes widen as those around him step out of the way. He takes a few steps backward into the hall and moves out of sight. Everyone else leaves too.
“You should try to get some rest too,” Caesar says to me. “We will be busy tomorrow.”
“Sure thing, boss man.”
Caesar grabs his black bag and heads out into the hall.
In a vacant room filled with movie posters and comic books I find fresh socks and boxers. Much better than the chlorine, blood and vomit I’d been wearing. Then I find a pair of pants along with a t-shirt, hoody and jacket (layers are great to help keep zombie teeth from penetrating skin).
I glance at a clock. 11:55 p.m. Will I even sleep? Sure hope tomorrow isn’t as long as this day turned out to be.
Chapter 6
Doom
“Seth, wake up.”
What the fuck? Not Jessica again. “You missed your chance earlier. I really need to get some sleep,” I growl.
“I’m not here to sleep with you, asshole. I’m trying to save your life. Bill and another guy are trying to keep the infected from getting in through the stairwell.”
“Something told me this night wasn’t over.”
“Just hurry.”
I grab the gun from under my pillow and we head into the hall. Jessica points towards the emergency exit where two guys are trying to hold the door shut.
“I’m going to get everyone so we can figure a way out of here,” she says.
I translate to: the dead creatures are your fucking problem. I’m the fuck out of here.
“Sure,” I say. Doesn’t seem like too hard of a task.
The small rectangular window in the door is completely demolished. The undead do their best to pry it off. Bits of metal wiring hold it in place.
“Give us a hand here,” Bill says. He’s some jock wannabe with red hair and a goatee. The dude with him is his brother Roger. Roger weighs about ten pounds and is all hair. One of the zombies might grab him by his neck fur if he isn’t careful.
I throw my weight into the party. The force from all three of us shuts the door. There’s no way to lock it without a key so we hold tight. How the fuck do these things know how to open doors anyway? In movies and games they’re always dumb as cats.
“Thank you,” Bill says, then just like the dick he is, he and Roger let go and take off running.
“What the fuck?” I yell, but it’s no good. “Fucking assholes.”
People run back and forth between the condos trying to gather belongings and find another way out. I’m holding the door with all my strength, but it’s not going to last. I spot a man heading toward me. As he draws closer I notice he’s got a bottle of vodka in his hand and looks like his face was recently burnt.
“I’m looking for the asshole who did this to my face,” he mutters.
“How should I know who did that to your face? Why don’t you fucking help me here.”
“I recognize your voice,” he spits.
“Remember you said go sleep it off or some bullshit? Where’s the man who shot at me?”
“Can’t we talk about this after you help me keep the door shut?”
“Help you? Who the hell do you think let them in? I’m going to burn you and watch those freaks feast on your barbecued ass.”
A flaming bottle of alcohol flies towards me. Since being burned alive just to hold a door shut to save everyone else is just not worth it, I let go and duck. Flaming vodka smashes into the infected. Several of them are ablaze. Burning zombies stagger toward me smelling like fiery bags of shit. I take off down the hall, but Scarface decides to get in my way.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says.
Now this douchebag has really pissed me off. I whip out my pistol. “Move your fucking ass.”
Just then a door opens from his left. A shotgun pops out, points to the side of his head and blasts the dude’s brains against the wall in a splattering snowball of blood. His body crumples against the hall floor.
Caesar rests the shotgun on his shoulder. A lit cigar dangles from his mouth.
“Let’s take our leave, Mr. Seth.”
I kind of like this Mr. Seth thing, though I’m scared shitless.
We head toward the elevators where the group has gathered. While trailing behind Caesar I get this twist in my gut. A familiar sound catches my ears and causes me to stop in front of a doorway.
“That damn old lady hasn’t left with the baby yet?” I say.
Sandy comes shuffling out of her room. “Why do you guys insist on waking the baby all the time?”
“The infected are here,” I say. “Head to the elevators. I’ll grab Ella.”
“Oh God. Are you sure?”
“Yes, bitch. Now move out the way.”
Ella is in a crib, crying. Fortunately, her bag is all ready to go and the carrier is laid out nicely. The baby loads in fast and the carrier is strapped to me backpack style with the baby facing over my shoulder. We head out the door. Once we hit the living room my body freezes at the sight of Sandy being feasted upon in the doorway by a few flaming undead.
Infamy: A Zombie Novel Page 5